


Sweet Illusions

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In this tux, in this limousine, he looks like he owns the world and she can't help but be impressed. The power that radiates from him, the prosperity and intellect and sophisticated nonchalance, tonight it all belongs to her. Tonight she is the queen to his kingdom."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Appearances

**Author's Note:**

> New multi-chap fic. Red and Liz go undercover. Enjoy!

_Red_. Predictable.

The dress is beautiful. Of course it is. Elegant, expensive, purest silk, impossibly soft against her skin. And red. The fabric undercover missions are made of. The fabric that triggers gun shots in embassies and waltzes with criminals and vengeful ex-lovers and  _I'm your plus one._

It's a perfect fit. The cut and the color. He really did have impeccable taste. It's not all suits and ties and vests. No, sometimes it's red dresses, too. And heels and clutches. And a determined knock on the door.  _Lizzie?_  Time to go.

* * *

The car ride is quiet yet his gaze rests on her shoulders like a burden. Being regarded by Raymond Reddington in this fashion, with such intensity, is nearly breathtaking. He's almost staring, looking at her like she's a masterpiece, something divine, and she can barely stand it and it's merely a sober  _you look wonderful_  that finally leaves his lips. And then he turns away and swallows. Hard.

They had been on good terms lately. Friendly, professional, cooperating. The occasional dinner, the occasional reassuring touch. Some nights he comes over for a night cap, tells her stories, makes her smile, and then leaves with a quick  _goodnight_. He's less intrusive now, after the Braxton ordeal, because he doesn't want to push her. He wants her trust back and almost desperately so, but he wants to earn it and work for it, wants to show her that he really does care and that it has nothing to do with some device that was once carefully hidden and now God knows where. His courage blossoms with every casual conversation, every brief contact. They can still read each other without words-  _what's wrong?_ \- and there's comfort in that -  _everything_ \- because he knows their bond remains a remarkable one, something worth cherishing, something that transcends formalities and customs and physical attraction even though her eyes wander to his lips rather frequently. Just the same.

It's hardly a dangerous mission this time, much more  _high society_  than  _high risk_ , but necessary for intel and contacts and research and all these countless infinitesimal essentials that determine the success of their operations. Another gala, New York instead of Washington, a gathering of wealth and vice. And so Red had insisted on going undercover, with Liz by his side and a ring on her finger, one of the numerous upper class couples that roamed through Manhattan in such abundance. And Liz had agreed without objecting, much to his surprise. And hers.

* * *

She loves the city, especially at night. Bright lights flying by, endless streams of flashes and stars and wonder and yes, memories, too. It seemed like lifetimes ago, her trembling arm linked with his, that ever- intriguing amalgamation of tux and dress, experience and innocence.  _We are going to make a great team._  They had certainly looked the part. She almost believed him then, although she had despised his smugness and vanity. Or maybe she had envied him. She was still so new to all of this. Nebraska seemed continents away.

The Freelancer, right. When her illusions had been shattered, when she had realized that the good and the bad are rarely unequivocally discernible. Evil makes eloquent speeches. Evil wears diamond earrings. Idols are prone to disappoint and prestige is a fraudulent concept. She had learned some valuable lessons that night.  _Looks like she's dying._  A syringe on the floor.  _D_ _efinitely dying._  What the hell was wrong with him?

And then the sunrise. That stunningly innocent sunrise across the East River. With blood on her hands and him facing the other way.  _We never really know anyone, do we?_  He still spoke in infuriating riddles, spoke of trust and _how fucking dare he._  Her life was already in ruins, she just didn't know it. But he had been well aware. The conviction in his eyes betrayed him. And then he had walked away without a care in the world, as if his words hadn't just initiated an irreversible process poisoning every certainty in her life. Bastard.

Since then months had gone by. Struggles and contentions and embraces had passed. There were times when she sought his closeness, his warmth; there were times when she wanted to stick another pen in his neck. Some days she observes him reticently, detects that lingering vulnerability in his stern expression before it vanishes without a trace. His armor used to be indestructible but it not longer seems that way. She wonders if she has done this to him. She wonders if notorious criminals can grief. She wonders why the distance between them results in such frighteningly vivid dreams and why it's always him that saves her and no one else. Her mind is racing and she can hardly keep up.

And now back to the start. In this tux, in this limousine, he looks like he owns the world and she can't help but be impressed. The power that radiates from him, the prosperity and intellect and sophisticated nonchalance, tonight it all belongs to her. Tonight she is the queen to his kingdom.

_I have our_ _wedding bands_ , he says. Business as usual. The velvet box he pulls from his pocket seems heavy and consequential. He opens it cautiously, takes the simple but stunning ring -  _may I_ _?_ \- and she just nods and watches her hand being lifted gingerly, his fingers caressing hers and there's an ache in her chest that threatens to submerge her and now there's gold around her skin and she can't bring herself to look at him.

The car stops. He lets go, somewhat reluctantly it seems, rather sighs than speaks her name, opens the door.

This is how it begins.


	2. Disguises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2. Enjoy!

_Are you alright?_

No, she isn't. She's anxious and insecure and uncertain why she had agreed to do this in the first place. The dress, the ring, the elevator and  _him_ , most of all him, her tentative husband, with his hand on the small of her back and a million tricks up his sleeve. This situation, this whole thing, it shouldn't be this hard. She knows him, after all, knows the part of him he so willingly surrenders at times, on his knees or not, but she isn't prepared for these tiny circles being drawn on her exposed skin and his proximity in this already confined space and  _how many more floors are there anyway_? And then he asks again-  _Lizzie?_ \- and she finally turns to look at him-  _yeah, sure_ \- and sees something she can't quite define. When he withdraws his hand she shivers and she doesn't understand why.

There are no ear pieces or surveillance vans involved, no, this is just Red and her and their promise to talk to the right people. No name tags, no badges, no Cooper. This is as undercover as can be. This is completely and utterly fake and his smile means nothing. She has to make herself believe that.  _How is this going to work_ , she wonders, and then the door opens and he's leading her out into the open.

The Press Lounge, Hell's Kitchen. It's a perfect location, really, an effortless fusion of modest elegance and rooftop modernity, with Midtown beaming in the distance and the Hudson River at its foot. As glamorous fundraising events go it's all black tie and easy money.  _Smells like decadence and vice._ Indeed.

They blend in perfectly. That's the first thing she notices. Among this assembly of diplomats, politicians, CEOs, artists, self-proclaimed philanthropists and eager socialites, among this garish mass of colorful gowns and impeccably tailored tuxedos they look like they belong. _So this is the upper class_ , she thinks, before Red runs his hand down her spine, leaving a trail of imperceptible tremors,  _oh god_ , and directs her towards the bar.

"Would you like something to drink, honey? I hear the Sancerre goes along beautifully with the view." Unbelievable. Her favorite. The wine is her favorite and of course he knows it. And of course he plays the role of the caring husband so confidently, so smoothly, that no one around them could even doubt the undying love he devotes exclusively to the somewhat baffled woman by his side. As she takes the glass from his hand, as she avoids any contact in fear of the consequences, he leans in close and speaks softly. "Lizzie, it's okay." His deep whisper seems to echo through her every cell; his breath is warm against her ear and it's killing her. "You can touch me, you know. The ring grants you that privilege." Before she can form a response he kisses her cheek -  _the center of his universe_ \- and orders himself a glass of Scotch and she can't believe what she's feeling and the damn wine isn't strong enough to numb any of it.

She should be so good at this. Fake marriages were her forte, after all, knowingly or not, and there's irony to be found here somewhere, she's sure of it, but she still cringes at her own thoughts. She watches as Red introduces her to some well-heeled people-  _this is my wife, Elizabeth_ \- and the words sound so sincere coming from his mouth and weren't they supposed to use a cover? An alias? Their fingers are interlaced; he's playing the part for the both of them while she's distracted by the warm sensation still emanating from the spot where his lips had come into contact with her skin and she brings her hand up to her face absent-mindedly, as if to prevent it from spreading, as if to prevent it from wreaking havoc on her conscience, her better judgment.

It's like following herself in a dream. She moves along with him, laughs when expected, shakes hands, gives short answers and asks unobtrusive questions, raises no eyebrows, let's Red take the lead. His anecdotes are entertaining and amusing; it's that rare talent he has, to draw in his audience in the matter of seconds, to wrap them around his finger. Empires aren't built on mediocrity and his wasn't either.

He keeps his arm around her waist (some territorial instinct probably); he touches her with a tenderness that makes her want to scream.  _Don't fall for it,_ she keeps telling herself over and over.  _Criminals are notorious liars._ But his closeness has never felt this real. Looking at him has never hurt this much.

Under the illuminated Manhattan night sky she's swept up in an opera of casual jazz, clinking cocktail glasses, heavy cigar smoke. This should have been so easy. She's been trained for this, she's a professional, and this undercover mission is  _just_  a job. Then again, nothing involving the man next to her is ever  _just_  much of anything.

She excuses herself in the middle of the conversation. "Is your wife not feeling well?" she hears someone ask, and Red responds promptly, intuitively. "She's feeling a little tired. We just got back from Shanghai this morning and the trip didn't go quite as we had hoped." The others nod in unison, a sympathetic smile on their lips, ah yes, jet lag, that omnipresent strain of the rich. "I better go check on her. Pleasure talking to you, gentlemen."

He finds her in a strangely forsaken corner on the other side of the patio. Ruminative, wheels spinning, doubt and concern and worry. He moves in close, the protective husband, and even in this private setting, as far away from the crowd as the venue allows, she feels the ring around her finger tighten.  _My wife Elizabeth_. Something on her tongue tastes like affection and she hates him for it.  _This charade of you pretending to care about me was a waste of your time_ _._  Except it wasn't.

"I know this is difficult for you, Lizzie, but you're doing fine. Just follow my lead. We're doing fine. We're getting what we came here for." She thinks he's not talking about the mission. She thinks he's talking about something else entirely.

The music has come to a stop. It's quiet for a moment, there's shuffling and chatting and then three beats. A waltz. He tilts his head.

"Would you like to dance, Lizzie?" he asks softly. Holds out his hand expectantly.

Oh.

The problem isn't that she takes it. The problem isn't that his smile is all hope and gratitude.

The problem is that none of this feels fake.

Not even a little.


	3. Dancing

They've done this before.

The dress and the tux and the dance. Disguises and cover-ups. Galas and drinks.

Yes, they've done this before.

But never as husband and wife.

He leads her into the middle of the floor, into the midst of closely entwined gowns and suits, nothing but couples, and this is where they belong now, too. The perfect hiding place, the perfect disguise.

She's not much of a dancer and she's sure he knows it. It's impossible to keep secrets from Raymond Reddington and yes, she is nervous, nervous like a teenager during her first prom and she blushes and  _it's just a dance and nothing more_. He pauses, as if to find a perfect position, and then he takes her hand rather swiftly, maybe afraid she'll change her mind if he waits too long. Theoretically, they must be good at this. Their wedding dance, for instance, surely they must have made quite an impression and she looked so beautiful in her white-

He abandons the thought before it can tear him to shreds.

She looks beautiful in red. Leave it at that.

There's a hand on his shoulder pulling him back to reality-  _Red-_ and he nods in apology and leans in, touches her waist, lifts his arm. Starts to move.

One step, then another, good posture and all that's required, but this isn't how married couples dance, no, it simply isn't and they're not even looking at each other and they're both aware. "You're thinking too much," he whispers. "Just follow my lead." The phrase haunts her tonight and he doesn't seem to realize just how much he's asking of her. She's afraid of losing control, of doing things she can't take back, undercover or not.  _You can touch me._  He's right, she can do whatever she wants with him.  _To_  him. Touch him, tease him, scold him, punish him.  _Violence and sex_. The line between pleasure and pain has always been so fleeting. A breath of air, that's all it takes. He had told her so. And the ring grants her so much power. Frightens her in absurd ways. Frees her from excuses and justifications.

But this isn't a tango.

She observes him surreptitiously out of the corner of her eyes. His expression is indecipherable, but she's seen traces of it before. There's hope there, kindness, pride, vulnerability. It's a puzzle he's offering her and she's sure it would make sense if she could only put together the pieces. She can't seem to profile him these days. Or maybe she's not willing to. Maybe she's simply not ready to face whatever she would discover.

Denial has always been such a comfortable state of mind.

He's gaining courage with every beat, moves his hands more confidently, draws her closer while she's trying desperately to hold on to her rationality. These hands have killed, these hands have tortured and now they're ghosting along her lower back in the gentlest of ways. Him and the countless contradictions he embodies. Temerity and concern, smugness and solicitude. The ruthless businessman; the caring confidante. She thinks stripping him of his many layers would take lifetimes and she finds herself willing to try. Somewhere beneath the disguise, somewhere beneath the armor is a man that says her name like a prayer and looks at her like she's the sun. She can no longer imagine life without him. And when the hell did that happen?

_You need me. And you hate that about yourself._

This feels good, this feels right, this feels like they've earned it. Just for now, for the duration of this dance, they exist in a vacuum. No Fulcrum, no higher objective. When she leans in a bit more she can see the surprise in his eyes; when she puts her head on his shoulder she can sense his pulse quicken. Minutes ago there was a waltz. Now there's simply a slow, soft rhythm. Intimate cadences escaping towards the New York sky. And them, surrendering to their cover, crossing imagined lines.

Just for now, they're playing their role to perfection.

_A sensuous battle._

He knows this won't last. He knows that as soon as they garner the last bit of valuable information and step out of the building this charade is over. They'll return to their casual professionalism, her constant questioning of his intentions. Distance and longing, yes, that insidious yearning he just can't seem to elude every time she crosses his mind. The darkness that holds him captive.

But this, this is absolution. Her heartbeat against his, the faint glow of her skin, dark strands opposing  _red_ silk. And a ring. There's poetry in her every breath. At some point he has to withdraw. He's not sure he can.

He wonders how far she'll let him go. He wonders what it would take to break her composure and if he's courageous enough, daring enough to find out.

_They size one another up, assessing risk, setting boundaries, challenging each other to breach them._

There's a part of him that wants to kiss her the way loving husbands do. His hands in her hair, tracing the nape of her neck, pulling her close. There's a part of him that knows he doesn't deserve indulging in reveries, doesn't deserve  _her_  and her forgiveness _._ He wishes he could tell her the truth. He wishes for many things these days. They all carry her name.

The song is over. Their movements stop.

They are left staring at each other as the couples around them break up, walk towards the bar, resume their spots on the patio.

_Thank you_ , he says. His tone is too calm, too restrained, as if there are a million thoughts on his mind he simply can't voice.

_Each has something the other wants._

He wants her so badly.

Moves closer to once again kiss her cheek, sustain some fragile innocence, but thinks better of it and so he turns, ever so slightly, places his lips on hers for a mere second, routinely, as if this is what he does every morning after she wakes up, as if this is a habit, nothing more, something entirely inconsequential.

She doesn't react.

She thinks the wine has gone to her head.

She remembers a quote about warmth and gravitation. Licks her lips and tastes Scotch.

Comes to her senses.

And pulls him towards her.


	4. Admission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. Here's ch. 4! Thank you for the kudos and comments :)

Well.

Touching Elizabeth Keen was one thing. Comforting her, dancing with her, saving her. Even arguing.

But kissing her.  _Kissing_  her.

That was something else entirely.

He thought he was prepared for it.

He wasn't.

Kissing Elizabeth Keen, no,  _being_ kissed by Elizabeth Keen was youth and revelation and desire and closed eyes. Something good. Something so damn good.

It's not a first kiss because it can't be. Married couples don't exchange first kisses on upscale dance floors and looking surprised would be so incredibly out of character but remaining in control has certainly become a trying task and her lips are  _so soft_  and everything around him seems so small. She's destroying him without realizing. Sets a fire deep within he won't be able to extinguish. Not when they're long out of the building. Not when he's taking off his tux. Elizabeth Keen is wreaking havoc on his scarred being with the mere touch of her lips. He doesn't want her to stop.

She withdraws and just takes it all in, that nuance of disbelief in his wide open eyes, feels proud and accomplished,  _I did this to him_ _,_  reaches for his hand and leads him towards the bar. Orders a Merlot and another Scotch, neat, doesn't speak a word because she can't think of anything relevant to say. Somewhere among their rich companions was a mission, a job that needed to be done, but she barely remembers. They're playing their parts. Even better. They're living them. And is that not what the FBI has asked them to do? Is that not what is expected?

"What happened over there, Lizzie?" he asks suddenly, seemingly at ease in the leather chair next to her, disguising his burns, smoothly balancing his glass by its rim, and she simply doesn't have an answer.

"What do you mean?"

"Lizzie."

"Drink your scotch, Red."

"Very well."

So that's it. That's enough. The panic is gone. Concern, trepidation, apprehension. It's all gone. But he, he's as present as he's ever been, a hand on her thigh, gentle warmth seeping through her, making her shiver. Daring her to reciprocate. Whatever she's willing to give.

Feigning innocence has become such a struggle and she's so far past indifference. She's battling its brutal counterpart. And his hand.  _His hand._ The cold metal of the ring leaving a wistful trace. She'll have to wash off his fingerprints later tonight. They're all over her. Lingering beneath her dress, beneath her skin.

She wonders what's left. Of the night, of her. They've talked, they've listened, they've observed. Mingled with the crowd, shared a drink and a dance. They could leave in good conscience.

She doesn't want to. How ironic.

No, this fraudulent marriage is blissful, is charming. She's sure he would't mind another dance. Something besides a waltz. Out of the corner of her eye he looks incredibly content and powerful and, yes, like he belongs by her side. She virtually aches to touch him. It would be so easy.

There is no such thing with him, of course. Nothing is ever easy. It's complicated and consequential and it's kissing him on a dance floor, breathing against him. It's blending in with a dozen other couples while calculating her every move. It's suffering. Such delightful suffering.

He's leaning in to not raise suspicion, his hand still in place.  _Would you like to talk about it,_ he asks.

She wishes she could. She wishes she could tell him how his touch is the realest thing in her life right now. How she trusts him completely even though she has no reasonable explanation for it. How the kiss wasn't as impulsive as he would assume. How she wants to hold on to him. How scared she is he will disappear at any given moment, any given day, once his plans change or his list is completed. But all she manages is a quick shake of her head. Silence.

The taste of him will never leave her tongue.

"I'm just doing my job, Red."

"And quite believably so, if I might add."

There's no fooling Raymond Reddington.

No one is paying attention to them. The other guests are wrapped up in their own business, exchange numbers and checks. Money and alcohol on the table, in the air. All for the illusion of a good cause.

She doesn't quite understand what she's done to him. But he looks at her differently now, with a brightness in his eyes that hasn't been there before, as if she's uncovered another layer, as if the fog has been lifted. And something dark. Yes, something dark, too.

Once more he whispers. "May I make a suggestion?"

She stares back at him, nods in anticipation, and falters at the tone of his voice. His lips at her ear.

"I would hate to let this delectable evening end so abruptly. However, if you prefer for us to leave this garish establishment, if you prefer to have Dembe drive you home, we can leave right this minute and drop the charade. Or-"

The second option. She's already decided on the second option. Her pulse is rushing.

"Or what?"

He withdraws and pauses. Seems to look for something deep within her and eventually finds it. They exist in a vacuum.

"Or we can leave this party like we came- as husband and wife. You can accompany me to my hotel room, share a bottle of champagne. Continue what you started on the dance floor. Maybe even finish it. Remain in character just for a little longer. Because I have to tell you, Lizzie, we really  _do_  make a great team. Wouldn't you say?"

Oh.

_We can do this, you and I._

It was right in front of her now, all she wanted, he had laid it out so neatly in front of her. No strings attached. Just this once. Just a drink. Just a kiss. Just…

She hadn't known he had booked a room. A suite, most likely. And when did he take hold of her hand? When had breathing become such a challenge?

Only one step, crossing that one line.

This was never fake at all.

She's trembling and his offer is so tempting and isn't this just what they needed and longed for? His expression is all hope.

Two little words to save him.

"Let's go."


	5. Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

A suite. What else.

They didn't speak a word in the elevator, left the party with their half-filled glasses abandoned on the table. He hasn't touched her since she so forthrightly accepted his invitation. He still seems rather taken aback. Surprised that his outrageous gamble paid off. It's all a game. Tonight they may both win it.

The suite is modern, maybe almost too much so for Red to fully fit in. Liz, however, finds immediate comfort in the wide open space, marvels at the view over the city. She doesn't miss the opened bottle of scotch on the night stand either. Or the red bedding. Of course.

It's ironic how insecure they both seem after that convincing display on the rooftop. But their audience has vanished, it's just the two of them now and it's quiet in this large room and their footsteps are moving away from each other. He takes off his jacket, folds it and places it neatly on the back of a chair, just stands there in his crisp white shirt and black dress pants. Loosens his bow tie with such precision that she can't help but stare. How did they get here?

"Champagne?" he asks.

"Please."

It'll take the edge off. Stop the tremble in her voice. Hopefully.

He hands her the glass and brushes her fingers and no, this isn't accidental, these things never are. It's calculated, an affectionate reminder of why she followed him, of what this could be, and she remembers him sitting with his body turned away from her, remembers his hand motion as he mused about the evening light breaking through the trees,  _I don't even know why I'm here_ , all of this was ages ago and yet the outcome remains the same. She can't tear herself away from him. She never could.

She sits down on the leather sofa and waits for him to join her, feels him approach, watches him as he chooses the chair across from her instead. She wonders what he's thinking.

"You gave quite a performance tonight, Lizzie." It's a simple statement devoid of mockery or smugness or arrogance. No, he seems almost proud, admiring.

"I thought the performance wasn't over yet."

He simply smiles at her. Acts like they have all the time in the world.

He never expected her to agree to come with him. Not under this premise, anyway. He can't stop looking at her.

"What would it be like?" she asks him suddenly.

"What would what be like?"

"Being married to Raymond Reddington." She quickly corrects herself. "I mean  _a_ _ctually_  being married to Raymond Reddington."

A balancing act. That's what this night has turned into.

He has been married. But he hasn't been married to  _her_ \- not without the element of pretense, that is- and wouldn't it all be so different with her. Wouldn't he do better? Wouldn't he try harder? Wouldn't he look at her just like he did right now? With love and devotion? Would she recognize it, maybe reciprocate? The mere illusion, the plain idea of it, leaves his throat dry. Another sip. The ring on his finger resonating wistfully against the glass.

"I wasn't the best husband during my first marriage," he begins.

"Why is that?"

"I took things for granted."

It means everything. It means nothing. It's not like she expected actual answers either.

"I was young, unexperienced. Selfish mostly." He's choosing his words with such care.

It's fascinating, seeing him like this. Not quite an open book. But he's offering her chapters, moments. He couldn't possibly reveal the full tale.

"What would you change, Red? If you ever got the chance again?"

She knows she should stop, but this, this is all so tempting. Imagining him as the caring husband. And they've crossed so many lines tonight. Just one more won't make a difference and she may never get another opportunity.

This night exists in a vacuum. She can make herself believe that.

He hesitates, then leans back, puts some distance between them. This won't be easy.

"I would focus on the details, small gestures. Listen more carefully and remember. Be grateful for what I have. Be honest." He turns his gaze towards the window. "Be there when I'm needed."

There's more there, she can feel it, but she doesn't push him.

"Do you like poetry, Lizzie?" he inquires suddenly, his eyes still fixed on the world outside.

She nods, unsure where this is going.

"I used to memorize poems when I was younger. A brain exercise, if you will. I would read through anthologies and try to remember pieces I particularly enjoyed." He looks back at her then, makes sure he has her full attention. " _I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear. And whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling."_

Something burns within her. Something aches. His voice is deep, gentle.

"E. E. Cummings. I was always quite fond of his work. It's very…intimate."

She's grasping her glass so tightly she thinks it might break any second. She understands now. The poem.

He wasn't merely talking  _to_  her.

No.

He was talking  _about_  her.

Honesty. That's what he offered her. Under the disguise that clung to them now, that's what she could hold on to.

She rises from the sofa then, straightens her dress, takes a few steps towards him. Holds out her hand.

He observes her actions closely, tries to gauge her intentions. He's said too much, he knows it. Maybe in the morning he can pretend none of this ever happened. Maybe that's why he follows when she leads him to the middle of the room, their fingers intertwined, their surroundings silent.

A dance. He gets it now. That's how she positions them.

There's no music. But they move nonetheless. Sway slowly, closer than before.

And then she kisses him so softly, he thinks he imagined it. Starts unbuttoning his shirt while he breathes her name.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Finish what I started."


	6. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with this story! Your comments and kudos mean a lot.

This could be so simple. And yet he can't breathe. And yet he's struggling.

There are fingers on his buttons,  _her_  fingers, and they're eager to tear the fabric off his skin, tear him apart, and he can't even breathe. He's completely still.

It's too much. And Raymond Reddington is always prepared, always a step ahead. He has imagined this so many times, every infinitesimal detail, every shared sensation, but the reality of it all overwhelms him. This is all that matters. And he's frightened.

_Lizzie_ , he hears someone say and it sounds like a warning. But she's determined and she's pulling at him, closer, always closer, and it's one last button now and then it's over.

_Stop_ , he says, and he doesn't know why. He's lying to her. Truth is he never wants her to stop. He never wants this to end. He never wants to forget her hot breath on his burned skin, his scars.

Scars.

He steps back and  _god_ , what can he even say to her? How can he explain this? She's acting on a dare or maybe it's the alcohol but it couldn't possibly, possibly be attraction and this is all fake anyway, isn't it? Well, isn't it?

She deserves so much better and what the hell was he thinking? This reckless invitation to his room, offering secrets and intimacy, such high stakes, pretending this will all be over with the rise of the sun. Morning is mere hours away.

He doesn't even notice the questions resonating in her uncertain gaze. The disappointment.

_Red?_

It's so much more than a question. It's insecurity and irrationality and regret, because she must be regretting this, how she kissed him, how he kissed her.

"What's wrong?" she asks as if it's her fault and it pains him. He's still wearing his shirt, holds on to it for dear life.

"This.  _This_  is wrong." And it's all he offers and it explains nothing. "You don't want this."

It's so cliché. It's so fucking cliché and how dare he. There's a fire in her eyes, it's burning steadily, and there a words on her tongue she can't hold back any longer. She shakes her head. She won't break in front of him.

"You don't get to change your mind on this. You want this, Red. I know you do. You want  _us_. Whatever inner conflict you are currently going through, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving this room. You're lying to yourself if you tell me we shouldn't be doing this. You're a good actor, Red. But you're not that good. I mean  _dammit_  Red, this whole night…No, you can't be that good. Just tell me you're-"

"Lizzie. Lizzie, stop." He almost begs her now but to no avail.

"You don't get to have second thoughts about this. You don't get to hate yourself for this."

He wants to believe her so badly.

She's touching him now, she's touching his wrist, feels for his pulse and finds it and it's rushing. There's satisfaction in that, poignancy even. Her voice seems so certain. "You said you never lied to me." He's finally looking at her. "Why start now?"

That last button. It's done.

The kiss is all forgiveness and bleeding hearts. It's he who initiates it, who can't seem to stop himself after her declaration, her line of questioning. She's so pure and soft and beautifully stubborn and the way she smiles against him destroys him quite marvelously. They're clinging to some unspoken vow, their rings as present as ever, and there's no routine to all this, no, it's desperate and so unlike husband and wife. This is all new.

Her back is against the wall now and she doesn't even know how she got there. She doesn't recall taking a single step. Because it's all-encompassing, this situation, and it feels good. It feels so, so good. It feels real. And then she pushes the shirt off his shoulders.

The cold air against his skin causes him to pause and he can sense his armor hitting the ground, crashing down next to him, and he knows that this is it. He memorizes the little things before she can run from him. The faint blush on her neck, the tangled hair. Waking up next to her would be a luxury, he thinks. She has never looked lovelier.

He wants to tell her. He wants to explain their shared history, their connection, how it all fits together and how she is the reason he is still alive. But that's not how it works and keeping her safe has always been his first priority. He will suffer if he has to. Some things are best left forgotten.

And yet…

She doesn't say a word. She doesn't ask a single question. She studies them, the burns on his shoulder, but never asks him to turn around.

"Lizzie, I-"

She never lets him finish. Simply leans forward and kisses him and shuts him up quite effectively. His eyes close on their own accord.

When he opens them again, she whispers softly.

"I'm sure my husband has explained to me in detail where those scars came from."

She's unbelievable. He almost smiles.

"I'm not going to ask, Red. Not tonight."

His expression, she wants to savor it forever. There's a gratitude she has rarely come across and a warmth that she can hardly endure. He looks strangely broken, indefinitely relieved. She'll weather the storm in the morning, as brutal as it may be, but no one has ever looked at her like this. She had a husband once. He has never looked at her  _like this_.

She turns around, waits for him to understand her intention and this time he doesn't hesitate. His fingers brush her neck, gently smooth her hair, ghost along the zipper.

That final line.

Her dress abandoned on the floor, a mere crimson remnant.

He moves her to the bed. Covers her body with his. Continues his discovery.

_I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart._

When she traces his scars it feels like sympathy.


	7. Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos/bookmarks/comments! Here's chapter 7. Enjoy!

She wakes first.

She's uncertain whether it's still the middle of the night or if the thick velvet curtains simply block out the break of dawn rather effectively, shelter them both from the outside world. From reality.

She remembers instantly. The undercover mission, the fundraiser, alcohol and a dance. Then this suite, a poem, doubts and revelations.

And then him. She can still feel  _him_.

Can feel the warmth radiating from his body, even under the sheets, not touching her but close all the same, and thinks there's nothing she'd rather wake up to than the steady rhythm of his calm breathing. Lost in the darkness of the room she can barely make out his form next to her, but she's more than willing to wait for her eyes to adjust. Because this is what she wants. To see him like this, peaceful and content and asleep. Completely unguarded. She may never get the chance again. The mere thought shatters something within her.

She will savor every second.

With every passing moment a new feature becomes more defined and she's mesmerized by him and the intimacy the night grants her. The soft lines of his face make him look almost boyish, innocent even, and yes, this has to be the most content she's ever seen him, temporarily reprieved from past actions and demons, and she wants to believe that  _this_  is the real Raymond Reddington. This is the man she knows, that protects her, that guides her. This is the man she trusts.

She hasn't taken off the ring. Maybe it's because it serves as a naive excuse for her actions or maybe it's because she's grown attached to it, to this night, to waking up next to him, however fleeting. Releasing it would put an end to all of it. She isn't ready yet. Will she ever be?

She's got a taste of him now.

With her dress abandoned and countless confessions uttered he had kissed her, touched her. Had explored every inch of her body. His weight settled on top of her, gently, carefully. Safely.

And now she can't forget the way he had looked at her, the way her name had sounded when the two syllables left his lips. A eulogy. Worship.

Something holy.

She never told him that E.E. Cummings was one of her favorites as well. That she was fully aware how the poem continued. The full scope of its meaning.

_Y_ _ou are whatever a moon has always meant_ _._

His ray of light in the dark.

_W_ _hatever a sun will always sing_ _._

She could save him.

_H_ _ere is the deepest secret nobody knows_ _._

She loves him, too.

* * *

It was foolish to think they could do this without any repercussions. How is she expected to act like nothing ever happened?

Maybe she'll be strong enough to forget the mere existence of this night. But truth is she doesn't want to. Truth is this night is the only thing she wants to remember for as long as she can. She wants to carry it with her like a talisman, a treasured memory. But most of all she wants to see it again, that look. Hear his prayers devoted to her. Feel his heartbeat under her skin.

She's never felt this desperate.

And how the hell did any of this happen?

She still has so many questions. The scars on his back and his insecurities which still amaze her and fascinate her. He can topple governments without hesitation or regret and yet the act of taking off his armor in front of her almost paralyzes him. But business deals never posed a personal threat. Her rejection did. She gets that now. She never wanted him to suffer.

Her hand reaches out on its own accord, the urge to touch him suddenly overwhelming. Gently she pulls the sheet off his shoulder, caresses the marred skin with her fingertips, then up his neck to his temple. If he's awake, he doesn't show it. Timidly she leans forward, places a kiss to the corner of his lips, moves over to his pillow as his eyes open slowly. Their breaths mingling. His lips curved into a faint smile.

They stay silent, simply look at each other.

"Lizzie" he whispers. "I can hear you think."

She wants to remember every cadence of his voice. How it resonates within her, sweetly trembles.

And he…

He should be careful and tread lightly and get out of this bed, this room, for her own good.

He should let her go and take off the ring and-

He never gets to finish his thought.

Her lips meet his tenderly and he pulls her closer, a reflex, a habit at this point, and he can't get enough and whatever promises he made-  _just this once_ \- he'll happily break them all if he just gets to feel this way a little longer, if he gets to hold her, to touch her.

He's always been a selfish man. At least selectively so.

Her bright eyes are all he sees. A loving glint.

"You're quite good," she tells him.

"Quite?"

"Your ego doesn't need praise."

"But it surely would appreciate it."

"Quite good, Red. Maybe next time-"

"Next time? Aren't you presumptuous?"

"I've heard that line before."

"Quite different circumstances."

"Quite."

_S_ _omeone who's willing to burn the world down to protect the one person they care about_ _-_ _that's a man I understand._

They're both deflecting and they know it. Discussions about what is real and what isn't, acting in character and true intentions, their relationship, no, they can't evade them forever and questions need to be answered, but this is good, this is  _something,_ and the outside world couldn't possibly compare.

The sun still hasn't risen.

In the dark, she intertwines their fingers and whispers softly. "So about next time-"

His smile is all wonder and mischief.

"Just follow my lead."


	8. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

The ocean. He dreams of the ocean and wakes to her breath on his shoulder.

It's a gentle sensation, like the calming breeze of the sea, the way it caresses his scarred skin, the way it soothes and alleviates. Her hand is grasping his arm, she's practically clinging to him, and he thinks this must mean something and that maybe she doesn't want him to go and that maybe she needs him as much as he needs her and that maybe...

He needs to stop himself immediately. Interrupt this train of thought and remember what this is. A singular incident. A sweet illusion. Nothing more.

And yet…

And yet she could have left hours ago. And yet she initiated it, crossing that last line. It couldn't be merely physical, could it? Not with what she had seen. No, there had to be something there that made her stay.

Hope was such an insidious companion. And what if he was wrong?

Now, in the quiet morning hours, the only thing he is sure of is this: he will never recover from waking up next to Elizabeth Keen.

* * *

The bed is empty.

As she reaches out her hand, as she touches the sheets and lingers there, she realizes that he must have been gone for a while. It's cold, it's all cold and abandoned and lonely and she feels foolish suddenly, not only foolish but stricken with panic because how the hell could he just leave her like this after everything the night had granted them. Every whisper and shiver and promise.

It's unfair, simple as that, to leave her this exposed. And the gravity of it all frightens her to the core.

It's morning now, the sun shining brightly, the curtains pulled to the side. The view is definitely something, even from her spot on the bed, and under different circumstances she would have marveled at it, but now she has no intention of rising, quite the opposite really. She can still smell him, and that's the part that hurts the most, the pillow next to her still smells like him and she hates herself for holding on to these trivial observations. She pulls the duvet over her head, escapes from the world around her. She wonders how she will face him at the post office. How to feign nonchalance.

In the quiet hotel room the only thing she is sure of is this: she can't bear the idea of never waking up next to him again.

* * *

"Lizzie?"

There's a hand on her cheek and it's warm and somewhere there's coffee.

"Lizzie, wake up."

There it is again, that familiar voice and it's calling her name. She opens her eyes and sees him kneeling in front of her, impeccably dressed - _where the hell did he get a new suit from?_ \- and with a kind expression and a faint smile and she thinks she's never felt this relieved.

"I got us breakfast," he says, stands and walks over to a large tray near the door that hadn't been there when she had first woken up.

"The chef is an old acquaintance of mine and his caramel french toast is simply divine. I thought you might be hungry so I asked him to assemble a few dishes for us and it seems like his skills are still-"

"I thought you left." She still hadn't moved, had merely been staring at him as he arranged the plates on the wooden table next to the bed, partly surprised at this open display of domesticity, partly incredulous because this all seemed utterly strange, the criminal, the very fake husband pouring her coffee. When he turns to look at her, the porcelain mug still in his hand, it's so beautifully in character she wants to memorize every detail of it. This, every morning, just Red and her, she wants it to last forever, she wants to lose herself in his warmth but then, then he responds and she is grateful for the distraction.

"Only briefly. You were sleeping quite peacefully and I didn't want to wake you." He pauses, steps closer to get a better look at her and she feels self-conscious suddenly, the white sheets draped around her and nothing underneath. "You were worried I had left without saying goodbye." It's not a question but an observation, even though he seems contemplative and somewhat taken aback, like he just made an unexpected discovery. Like someone had just revealed a very personal secret. He swallows, appears nervous all of a sudden, and she thinks this is the moment to find out.

"Red, can I ask you something?"

He nods almost apprehensively. He's scared, it's really that simple, and he doesn't want justifications or regret and he can't come up with a different scenario.

"Last night…How much of it was you merely playing a part?"

He doesn't know how to answer that. He doesn't even know where to start.

"Well, the Scotch they served wouldn't normally have been my first choice."

She understands what he's trying to do. She understands it perfectly well. But she can't let this opportunity slip.

"How about the kiss?"

He flinches almost imperceptibly and she only notices it because she knows exactly where to look, because she knows _him_. There's such fear in his eyes.

"What are you asking, Lizzie?" His voice is low, his tone uneasy.

"Did you merely pretend to be in love with me?"

For a moment she expects him to turn around and leave. Judging by his expression it seems like the only logical outcome.

He takes his time, lets his gaze wander over her body, finally focuses on her bright, affectionate eyes. The question itself is so incredibly easy to answer, really, it's the one truth he knows and he owes her honesty, doesn't he? He would never lie to her.

"No Lizzie, I never had to pretend to be in love with you."

* * *

She wants to grab him and hold on to him and never let him go. But she's perfectly still, caught up in her own feelings and that one all-encompassing confession, and he's certain he's made a horrible mistake.

"I should go. I'm sorry, Lizzie. I didn't mean to overwhelm you. Clearly I'm in no position to-"

"Don't leave, Red."

He looks tired and defeated, his shoulders slumped now, and a heavy sigh is all he can muster.

"Please, Red. Stay."

"You don't want me to leave?" he asks somewhat shyly, as if he doesn't quite believe her, and it's so incredibly endearing she can't help but smile.

"I want you to come back to bed. That's what I want, Red."

He notices it then, the delicate golden ring still tightly encircling her finger, a souvenir of sorts, and he approaches her slowly, tentatively. When he stops in front of her he just takes it all in for a moment; she's radiant and he's undeserving and she's looking up at him with such sincerity and devotion that he can't help but lean down and kiss her, all closed eyes and soft sounds and hunger for something more. She leans back and pulls him down with her, their movements skilled and knowing and intimate, and before she can unbutton his shirt he pauses and puts some distance between them. Gently he tugs a strand of hair behind her ear, runs the back of his fingers over her cheek, reaches for her hand and presses his lips to her palm. When she speaks the words, he almost stops breathing.

"I didn't have to pretend either."


	9. Brilliance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

It's late.

She can't remember the last time she has spent the better portion of the day in bed, it's well in the afternoon now and the room is filled with sunlight and he's still asleep next to her and she doesn't intend on waking him, either. She can only guess how sleep deprived his body has to be, his mind, all of it. She was tired, too, had been battling exhaustion for months but now she feels rested and strong and alive, every part of her beaming with something joyful, something intriguing. Something promising.

She sits up carefully and leans against the headboard and her wandering eyes spot his dress shirt abandoned on the floor and reach for it and its softness is better than any blanket,  _this will do just fine_ , she thinks, and puts it on. It smells like him, of course it does, unique and enticing, all charm and wit and skill. A piece of his armor covering her skin. Sweet symbolism.

She hears him stir and looks over and finds him staring at her, his eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness, his gaze affectionate and loving. It's all she knows now, that particular expression, and she doesn't want to remember anything else.

"You should wear my clothes more often." A low rumble in the quiet of the room, another thing to memorize, the sound of his voice, every raspy cadence.

"I might just have to given how comfortable this is." He simply smiles at her in response because he can't do much else. The way his shirt frames her body, all delicate lines and contours, he marvels at it. She's stunning, a ravishing sight for his sore eyes, and he adores her in a dress but this is so much better. Waking up to  _this_  is everything.

"What time is it?" he asks even though he doesn't want to know. This will have to end eventually, he's aware of that, he's  _too_  aware of that, and yet he craves more time with her, another hour, another day, another lifetime. He's clinging to every confession her lips had revealed in the morning.  _Red._  Every intimate sigh and reaction, every tremble.  _I didn't have to pretend either._

"Past three," she responds quietly and for a moment he is convinced there's wistfulness there, disappointment even. His hand finds hers under the covers and he tugs gently to get her attention, needs her to look down at him, his head still resting on the pillow. She has questions, he can see it, and forthrightness has never been their strong suit but he needs her to talk to him, openly, honestly.

"Lizzie?"

She turns towards him then, something in her expression he doesn't quite recognize, can't quite define.

"What are we going to do, Red?"

The one question that hurts the most because he doesn't have an answer. He moves to sit up because if they're having this conversation it needs to be eye to eye and he's already bracing himself for grief and heartbreak, he'll endure it, he'll persevere and this isn't about him anyway, not really, it's about her and her happiness and that's still his main concern, too. And he understands, he does, because no matter what she's told him earlier, the reality of it all would be a constant struggle and she doesn't deserve that. She deserves everything good in the world, he has told her so before, and he, well, he is haunted by darkness and sin.

He's still holding on to her hand, not yet willing to let go, and mulls over his choice of words a little too long until he offers her something simple, something reminiscent of their time together.

"I'll follow your lead," he tells her, defeat echoing in his tone, and it's something she doesn't miss but it's something she can't accept either.

"Red, look at me. I'm not willing to let this go and just forget about it. That was by no means where I was going with my question. I meant every word I said earlier. And we will figure this out, okay? But I need you with me. I need you to understand that you're deserving of this. I need you to understand that this between us is something good, something extraordinary. You're not a monster, Red. Please believe that. This is not just about me, it's about the two of us."

He's speechless.

He is completely and utterly speechless and he doesn't know what to do next or where to start. Every part of him floods with relief, he is happy, he realizes, truly and overwhelmingly happy and those somber thoughts, they still persist, but it doesn't matter. The only response he can come up with is the one thing he is most sure of-  _I love you, Lizzie-_ and of course it's no longer a secret to her and yet she's only now beginning to fully grasp the scope of it all, his anecdotes and metaphors, a ray of light.

When he asks her what she would like to do with the remains of the day, she answers quickly.

"Let's stay. Let's stay just a bit longer."

His smile confirms her request before he can utter a single word and yes, this is how she wants him.

"Lizzie, I think that's a brilliant idea. You're brilliant."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Reddingt-" but he silences her instantly, gently guides her back down, hovers above her. He is good, she thinks, he is so damn good and she'll indulge him gladly, wants him to continue his seduction, the kisses on her neck, his hands tracing her sides. There's such intensity to every single one of his touches, every contact of their skin a new discovery, a story patiently unfolding.

She wants to know every part of him. She wants to get to know him away from the task force, from missions and assignments and criminal empires, no list, no charade.

"We could have dinner at my house later," she remarks suddenly and he stops his caresses to look at her.

He's quite certain he'll wake up from this any second now. Reality is never this generous.

Another kiss, full and tender.

"Like I said, Lizzie. Brilliant."


	10. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

She's a vision for his tired eyes.

She's wearing dark jeans and a black wool sweater, her hair is tied together in a loose knot with a few unruly strands framing her face and it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

"You're early," she tells him in a mock accusatory tone as she guides him inside. "Make yourself at home. Dinner is almost ready."

"What's on the menu?"

"Fettuccine Alfredo. I know it's probably not as-"

"You cooked?" He tries to hide his disbelief but fails miserably.

"Well, yes. I mean I didn't have much time to prepare anything because you wouldn't let me leave the hotel room" -  _she is extraordinary_ , he thinks to himself- "but I hope you'll like it."

"Lizzie, I am fully convinced it will be the most delectable pasta I have ever tasted."

"That doesn't put me under any pressure at all now, does it?" She pauses for a moment. "I'm glad you're here, Red."

He can't quite grasp how he got this lucky.

"So am I, Lizzie. So am I."

* * *

She excuses herself to freshen up and leaves him in the living room with a chance for discovery. As he scans her bookshelves he spots an old record player abandoned in the corner and tries his luck, positions it and adjusts the needle, lets himself be surprised. It begins rotating somewhat reluctantly, but the sound fills the room full and clear.  _In The Wee Small Hours_ , Sinatra. Perfect.

He had been right. Dinner had in fact been delicious, the pasta, her wine selection, and her company, well, no words could really do  _that_  justice. Their conversation had been so casual, the atmosphere so domestic, that he had to constantly remind himself this wasn't just a sanguine figment of his imagination.

"I can't believe that thing still works," she tells him as she descends the stairs. "I haven't used it in years."

"It must have sensed it's a special occasion."

"Must have," she responds affectionately.

He walks towards her, holds out his hand, waits for her reaction.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm asking you to dance with me."

"My dancing skills last night didn't scare you off?"

"You could never scare me off, Lizzie. And this is different, isn't it? We don't have to pretend anymore. As much as I appreciate moving through ballrooms with a beautiful woman on my arm, there's just something much more intriguing about sharing a dance in private. It's comforting, being that close to someone, feel them breathe against you. One step, then another, back and forth. It's very-" he moves closer with every word, lets his hand find its way from her collarbone down her side to her waist, lets it linger there- "intimate." She can't help the shiver running down her spine, the tension palpable between them. It's their third dance in less than twenty-four hours, each special in its own right, the party, the suite, her living room. She likes this one because he is in her home. She likes this one because he's not scared anymore. She likes this one because she isn't either.

His movements are so gentle and she feels so warm, the dim light surrounding them, the sweet notes of a piano. She holds on to him, stands much closer than last night, is much calmer. He guides them, sways them almost imperceptibly, and he was right, she thinks, this  _is_  comforting. It's wonderful. He hums the melody, can't really help it, and the slight vibrations emanating from inside him tickle her face where it rests against his shoulder and she smiles. This is more than she could have hoped for, this kind of love. Forgiving and gracious. Exquisite in its honesty. Real.

She moves her head just a little bit to look at him and his eyes are closed, his features softened.

„Red?"

He opens them then, returns her gaze, a canvas of wonder and reverence.

„Yes?"

„Would you like to spend the night?"

His response is familiar, but it's all gratitude now. All sincerity, no dare, no challenge, no presumptions. So much has happened and this isn't the post office either.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

They're facing each other in the dark, in the safety of her bed. A suite could never compare, he realizes as he looks back at her. She's studying him and he lets her, bright eyes and content expression. Secrets don't really matter all that much anymore, she has seen all of him at this point. She's always seen more than most even when he was still fully dressed.

And now?

What else does he have to offer?

_She wants to know every part of him._

Small glimpses into his mind, how it functions, how it strategizes, his personal life, his childhood, how he grew up, what forced him to become a criminal. But she'll settle for something simple. Something fundamental.

"Would you do something for me, Red?"

"Anything."

"Would you tell me what made you...when did you know?"

She sounds insecure, scared, like someone whose emotions had been played with. Like someone who had not come out on the winning end.

His response is quick.

"When you stuck a pen into my neck."

It's not what she had expected. She still cringes when she remembers her outburst, has felt that very scar beneath her fingertips last night.

"An act of violence made you fall in love with me?"

"Not an act of violence, Lizzie. An act of courage. You see, intimidation is key in my line of business. You want people to respect you, you might even want them to be frightened of you. It can be incredibly helpful. It grants you leverage. But you, Lizzie, you looked right past that from the very beginning. You weren't intimidated. You stood your ground, you stated your case. You made your demands very clear. You were open to negotiation only if you could be sure you had my full attention. And even though I can assure you right now that you  _always_  have my full attention, I was very impressed by you back then. I  _am_  very impressed by you. You surprise me, you challenge me. You constantly amaze me with your strength, your perseverance. Your kindness. The way you fight for the things you believe in. It is remarkable and admirable."

Her eyes are filled with tears.

"So to answer your question, yes, the moment you punched a hole in my carotid I knew I was in terrible trouble. And not just physically."

He can still make her laugh and that's something.

In the dark, he reaches for her hand, kisses her palm. Watches as she reaches underneath his shirt, as she searches for his heartbeat, steady and confident, one beat, two beats, life moving within him. Her fingertips brushing across his skin, silently confirming that he is here with her, carotid in tact, past arguments forgotten. She kisses him with everything she has, every emotion that she has stored up, every promise she has ever made. She pulls and tugs and wants him closer, always closer, wants to memorize his scars and mend them. Wants to lose herself in whatever this is.

And hopes desperately that she will never have to return to a life without it.


End file.
